Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Page 25

  “Perfect speed.” Greg, behind me, slides his mask back over his mouth.

  My feet are cold; I can’t move the toes. This is the norm for me above Camp 1. It concerns me, but I’ve noticed that once the sun hits, my right foot warms up within half an hour. The left usually comes round some twenty minutes after that. I don’t know why the left takes longer, but that’s been the trend. A glaring white to the east indicates that the stove is about to switch on. I could do with its warming rays.

  I glance at my altimeter. It reveals we’re at 7,250 metres. Up ahead I see the same scene I’ve had for the last hour, a relentless incline that must be conquered. The mask hides my smile; I know Pumori sits below me. I half turn to my left and look over my shoulder. The view overwhelms me. We’ve been at altitude for a month, but always surrounded by giants. Now, a Himalayan vista of peaks and distant mountain ranges is thrust at me.

  I can’t guess the breadth of what’s presented. Back in the Dublin hills, the Mountains of Mourne in Northern Ireland and the Welsh highlands can be seen on a clear day. It’s a panorama of eighty kilometres, from a viewing point just four hundred metres above sea level. I’m now standing over seven kilometres into the heavens.

  I search for Pumori. At Base Camp, it towers above us. Now, its snowy apex is camouflaged by taller, white mountains beyond. I trace out its form and its summit. It sits below us. I inhale through the mask. There’s been much hardship since I set out on this path. Very few climb to the top of Pumori. I will never be one of them. But I’ve seen over its crown. It’s a stalemate I can take to the grave. I turn back to my right and lift a boot upwards.

  The sun peeks over the Lhotse ridge. Seconds later, its rays blast down onto the snow.

  “Greg, one minute, sun block.” The mask springs back on my face.

  I rub protection on the exposed parts: the bridge of my nose, cheekbones, and a one centimetre gap between the rim of my shades and the fleece hat. I pass the tube to Greg and relax as he does the necessary.

  “Oh no.” I close my eyes.

  I grab my exposed right hand. The pain pierces me. I think the tip of the index finger, where the cream was, is about to fall off. I stare at the limb. I can’t understand how it can generate so much suffering. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. A surge of foul language fills my mask. I try to warm my hand and massage it. Then I ram it back into the cold glove. I get no respite. It seems my system has decided not to return cold blood to my core and heart. It has cut off my right hand.

  “You ok?” Greg asks.

  “Damn hand, happened again.”

  I can’t warm it. The torture increases. How can I bring this hand back?

  “Here, try this.” Greg steps closer and unzips the top of his down suit.

  He shoves my right hand into his left armpit. I breathe easier. I feel the limb come back to life.

  “Yeah, that’s working.” I stick my glove down the front of my suit to defrost it. “Thanks buddy. Can we leave my hand there another minute? Yesterday with Angel, we took it out too quick, and it got cold again.”

  “Sure. Dude, you’ve got to stop doing this. Leave those gloves on from here on in.”

  “Definitely, like I said last time.”

  We get back into a rhythm, two breaths between each step, and push up the Lhotse Face.

  Stopping for a Moment on the Lhotse Face – 7,300 metres

  A group of thirty climbers and Sherpas moves out onto the rope above us. Their tents sit off to the right at upper Camp 3. A mass of red, orange, and yellow suits are shuffling uphill. We let the last few members of the team onto the line ahead of us. The masks prevent a meaningful conversation. A nod of the head and a thumbs-up completes the exchange. I’ve never seen the fixed rope so busy.

  I repeat Greg’s advice to myself: the perfect high altitude pace is one that could be maintained till eternity, well, at least till the end of the day.

  Looking ahead, I try to understand the route. We’ll ascend another two hundred metres up the right side of the Lhotse Face. It’s a consistent incline on hard snow, maybe forty-five degrees. Then we’ll traverse the face, a few hundred metres in width, to the Yellow Band. That obstacle will demand vertical climbing over rock and snow. I can’t see the trail past it, but somewhere beyond hides a path over the Geneva Spur. Once we get clear of that, we’ll head for Camp 4 at the South Col, at close to 8,000 metres.

  I’ve no idea what the Geneva Spur will present. It sounds daunting. I doubt a five centimetre pile of snow would be given its own name. There’ll be work ahead. I’ll worry about that later. I lift my boot and breathe and breathe again. Greg does the same just behind me.

  I feel almost bored. I’d been told today would be harrowing. The Lhotse Face has been the end to many a climber’s ascent, and not always a pretty conclusion. This pace is so even and slow, I think I could maintain it all day. I’ve already consumed a gooey gel packet. Perhaps my body is bathing in the flow of oxygen that’s entering the mask. Everyone I’ve seen today has a tank. I’ll enjoy the good times while they last.

  My mind drifts back to the dead climber. What caused his life to end here on the snow? Many have died on this mountain over the years. Those who die lower down can be dragged back to Base Camp by a paid Sherpa team. Those who succumb up high are dropped down a crevasse or pulled a little off route, away from the public glare. At some stage in the future, the manpower and equipment may be available to carry them down to a decent burial. The glacier grinds down the valley, while millions of tons of fresh snow fall on it each year. Apart from the harsh environs above Camp 4, it doesn’t disclose where the dead have lain. It will receive a few more bodies in the coming days. I consider the law of averages, presume it will be no one on our team, and lift my left boot upwards.

  Even behind my shades, I see the ice and snow of the Lhotse Face glimmer in the still air. Twenty minutes above, several climbers are sitting on the white surface just before the traverse. I glance back and down at Greg. I point to the resting climbers, then to him and me, and indicate drinking a pint of beer. He returns a thumbs-up.

  Our safeties remain connected to the rope. We’ve put four hundred metres below us today. We must dig in the crampons as we lower our backsides to the snow. Just sitting here and not sliding down the slope challenges me.

  “Going well,” Greg says.

  “So far so good.” I stretch the mask down over my chin. “Let’s get a water bottle out.”

  Climbers Approach the Lhotse Face Traverse near 7,500 metres

  1: Ade, Khalid, and Angel are in the centre of this group

  2: Camp 2

  3: Location of Camp 1

  4: Top of the Icefall

  5: The peak of Pumori is just out of shot above the number.

  In between nibbles of chocolate and clipped conversation, I slide the mask over my nose to get maximum benefit from the tank on my back. The mountains of Nepal stretch out in front of us. Angel, Ade, and Khalid labour up the last thirty metres towards where we’re sitting. The exertion has them doubled over.

  Teammates Approach the Lhotse Face Traverse near 7,500 metres

  From left to right: Unknown climber, Ade, Khalid, probably Jingbar (obscured), Angel.

  Greg nudges me and points to the Yellow Band. I nod to him. We rise to our feet and traverse the Lhotse Face.

  I’m watching a clump of mountaineers who’ve reached the Yellow Band. One by one, they climb a vertical wall several metres high. Then each catches their breath in a snowy hollow. After that, they tackle a forty degree slope of exposed, yellow smooth rock. The metal crampons will slide on that. Then the colourful shapes disappear over the top and are gone from view. I can imitate what I’ve seen.

  Greg takes the lead at the Yellow Band. He makes short work of the vertical section.

  I lack climbing grace. I shove a gloved hand or boot wherever it gets a grip and manhandle myself up the wall.

  Gasping, my crampons tear at the smooth slab. But with each effort, there
’s less stone ahead.

  Several climbers have bunched in the gruelling bottleneck. I straighten up and catch my breath. Greg is standing just in front of my right boot.

  Standing on the Yellow Band

  Camp 2 is 1,000 metres below, at my right elbow. Pumori stands in plain view, although camouflaged by the ranges behind it.

  Ten metres ahead, a mountaineer appears to be sunbathing. He’s lying back against the rock. Perhaps he’s a guide, waiting for his group to come through. We force ourselves up a few more steps. I recognise the man.

  “Hey Roger, what’s up? You ok?” Greg asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Here.” Greg hands Roger a camera. “Take a shot of Fergus and me.”

  Greg and I at the Yellow Band

  The line of climbers moves on. Greg tucks the camera away, the moment recorded.

  “Ok Roger, let’s move,” Greg says.

  “I’m fine here.”

  “What?” Greg looks over to Roger’s Sherpa and then back at Roger. “Let’s go, Camp 4.”

  The Sherpa is standing a few metres away.

  “Roger, get moving!” Greg says. “Your Sherpa will get frostbite.”

  Roger rises.

  Having heard so much of the infamous Yellow Band, I’m relieved to have it behind me. The fixed rope made a near impossible task into something that is just difficult. I’m back on snow and now looking at a different landscape.

  Ahead of us lies a snow-filled valley. A string of climbers are moving up its centre. To our right, less than a kilometre away, the brown ridge at the top of the Lhotse Face has come into focus. The brown and white Geneva Spur stretches along our left side, five hundred metres from where we stand. I imagine at lower altitudes, this’d be a beautiful winter day’s walk. The bottleneck at the Yellow Band had caused congestion. But once through it, we’ve freed up again.

  Greg and I get back into our groove and pace ourselves along the route. I can’t see the path that’ll lead us over the obstacle of rock and snow. The furthest climbers ahead become smaller and smaller, until they are just a dot of colour in a sea of white. At some stage they must turn left and attack the Spur, but I cannot determine where or how. We labour on.

  I strain my eyes to figure out how the trail will conquer the challenge. Once or twice, I think I see a route that could be the passage to Camp 4, but it lacks movement. I trace the ridge along the top of the brown spur where it contrasts against the sky. I search for motion. After several hundred metres plodding, I spy a rock in the distance move in front of the blue backdrop. I lock in on that position. A minute later, I spot another rock do the same thing. It moves up and over the crest of the spur. Those are climbers; that’s the track. I trace down from that point and make out more movement. The path reveals itself. Like at the Yellow Band, watching others ahead boosts me. It’s just a matter of putting left foot after right and not asking why.

  “Over there, Greg.” I point to what I’ve seen. “We go to the end of this valley, then turn left.”

  He looks and then gives me a thumbs-up.

  Halfway through the gorge, we come upon boot prints that turn to the right and off the route. It’s the first time in a month I’ve seen something not directed at the summit of Everest. They disappear up a steep incline that ends at jagged, near vertical walls of rock, about half a kilometre high.

  “To summit Lhotse.” Greg holds his mask away from his face. “The Finns will go that way.”

  It looks like a death trap, or as the Finns might say: breakfast.

  We reach the end of the valley, turn left, and follow the rope up the Spur.

  “We’ve gained a lot of height since the Yellow Band,” Greg says.

  “Yeah.” I look up. “Should be less than a hundred to the top. Not too far now.”

  “Just follow the rope.”

  “We can do this.”

  I’m standing at the base of the Geneva Spur, with the expectation that I’ll have scaled it within the hour. In days gone by, with lesser equipment and support, this was the end of many a climb.

  My legs hurt as I push up the narrow trail. A lifestyle of good food, comfortable beds, cars, central heating, and safety has long been flushed from my body. Anything which is bearable is considered a minor comfort. A barrier of rock and snow presses at my right shoulder. A drop into oblivion expands on the left. The mask hinders the view of where I’m placing my boots. But this fifty centimetre wide snaking path, marked by a rope, is all I need for now.

  Two lines have been anchored on the final, near vertical section. I opt for the one with the faster moving climbers. I put a gloved finger wherever I can feel a grip and pull myself up. My legs give what they can. Where this is not enough, I lever off the jumar and inch up the fixed rope.

  My knee pressed against the mask, my face in the snow, I drag myself over an outcrop. Within a few minutes, I’m half-climbing, half-crawling over the crest of the spur. I’m now one of the shifting rocks I’d seen a couple of hours ago. I’m standing above the Geneva Spur.

  I try to regain my breath on a rock at close to 8,000 metres. At my two o’clock, I’m staring straight over Nuptse at everything that lies behind it. Mountains, peaks, and ranges stretch beneath a blue sky. At my ten o’clock, ridges disappear into the distance. The jagged crest of Lhotse stands to my left and blocks the view beyond. I gaze down into the Cwm Valley, one and a half kilometres below me. I could reach Camp 2 via the express route in less than a minute.

  Just over my right shoulder is the reason I’m heaving into this mask. Few people see it from so close. A massive brown pyramid imposes on the sky above me. Will I stand on top of it in less than twenty-four hours?

  It’s 2pm, and I’ve no idea how far it is to Camp 4. Once there, we must recover, boil snow, eat, drink, and fill our bottles. Then we’ll step out into the night at 10pm for the summit push. Without water, there’ll be no attempt tonight. I’ll press on, Greg will catch up.

  I’m following the near level route, over broken slate, along the crest of the Geneva Spur. As I round each crag, I look ahead for Camp 4. I’m tired, but functioning. We’ll receive only a few hours break before pushing out tonight, and I’m anxious that it comes into view. After thirty minutes, I walk past a protrusion and spy coloured tents a few hundred metres further. The settlement is sitting on a flat bed of rock and snow that extends for several hundred square metres. I expected something more testing, worse than Camp 3, shelters carved into a steep incline.

  I find our tents and unstrap my crampons. Hugo sticks his face out from behind a zip. The play offs are over. This is the final.

  May 16

  Camp 4

  “Hi Fergus, you made it,” Hugo says. “Where are the others?”

  “Greg should be here in a few minutes.” I bend down on one knee to hear him. “The others are behind. I’ve not seen them since the Lhotse Face.”

  “Ok. Change of plan. There’s a storm forecast for tomorrow afternoon. We’ve got to be down from the upper slopes and back here by early afternoon tomorrow, at the latest. We’ll push off at six.”

  “What?” I look at my watch.

  “Six. That’s when we leave. Collect ice and start boiling water. Pete and Charlene are in here with me. We’ll be ready.”

  That’s only three hours away. We’re up against the clock.

  I take an axe to the ice at the edge of camp. It just throws shards up in the air. The effort exhausts me. I’m not wearing crampons. As I bring down the tool, I slide away with an equal and opposite force. Eventually, I’ve half-filled the sack. I’ve done my duty.

  I set up my equipment in a tent and start up the stove.

  “You in there, Fergus?”

  “Hey Greg, yeah.” I open the zip. “Watch the stove. What was the delay?”

  “I got stuck behind a climber for forty minutes near the top of the spur.” He crawls into the tent. “I had to talk her through it. In the end, a Sherpa had to physically push her up, by her arse.”

&
nbsp; “Could do without that. Bad news: we leave at six.”

  “What? You’re kidding?”

  “No, Hugo said so. Storm’s coming in tomorrow. Can’t risk getting stuck in it.” I place the mask back over my face.

  “That’s two and a half hours away. That’s not enough time to make water.”

  “I know. Well, let’s boil as much as we can and see where it gets us.”

  “Damn. How’s the boiling going?”

  “Hopeless. Those zips are damaged. There’s wind all over the vestibule. The flame’s tiny; the air’s so damn thin. The canisters are frozen, and the ice is far below zero to start with.”

  “Ok, let’s do what we can and prepare.”

  The mask and connected oxygen tank complicate simple movements. We melt ice for an hour but have little to show for our efforts. The temperature is dropping and the wind is picking up.

  “Guys, I’m coming in.” We hear Ade’s voice.

  “Cool, be careful. Mind the water.” Greg picks up the pot. “Let me move it first.”

  Ade crawls in and drags his equipment with him. He squeezes in between the two of us.

  “Damn. I can’t believe it. Bloody six o’clock. An hour and a half away,” Ade says.

  “You were talking to Hugo?” I ask.

  “Damn right. That’s it, finished for me. It’s not possible to rehydrate. We need two bottles for the push. And we need food and water now. I’d to tell Hugo I’m out.”

  “Man, you sure?” Greg asks.

  “What choice do I have? I’ll never recover in an hour and a half.”

  “Sorry Ade,” I say. “After all that, I can’t believe it’s come to this.”